


The Guns of Ricks-ton

by pokey_jr



Series: Metamorphoses [3]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, F/M, Guns, POV Second Person, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: For a straight-laced graduate student pining for excitement, it's all too easy to get caught up in the trigger-happy madness that surrounds Rick Sanchez.





	The Guns of Ricks-ton

**Author's Note:**

> If you're just here for smut there's a bit at the end.

Rick usually prefaces his benders with: “I’m bored.” At least when you’re around. Correction: when you’re around, but busy. Like he expects you to do something about it. If he invites himself to your place and has to wait on your couch for five minutes while you finish something in your interminable queue of reading or grading, he sprawls out on your couch and makes it his own. The same couch he first fucked you on. It’s a shitty couch, and shouldn’t have any capacity for sentimental value, but you remember the raunchy night with fondness. Rick doesn’t. You bring it up once in a text message and he replies with a close up photograph of his balls titled ‘Alien Landscape’. You receive it during a meeting with your sponsor, and have to awkwardly lie that it’s a vacation photo from your parents who are hiking in the New Mexico desert.

Boredom to him is intolerable. If he doesn't have something intellectually stimulating, he turns to you for something physical. Even then, sometimes he complains afterwards that days last too long, and gets out his flask, or a pipe or a baggie of what looks like crystal meth dyed pink. You never ask exactly what it is, and never partake, though he's offered a few times. You think of it as footloose, because it always makes him get up and dance.

"I have to be able to pass a drug test, Rick," you say.

“Laaaaame.” He does lines off of your coffee table, then puts on 90’s hip hop and starts shaking his ass.

“Mhmm, I am. I’ve spent my whole life being quiet and responsible and working hard so I can get a good job and keep being quiet and responsible and hardworking.”

“H-hey, guess what you and the number nine have in common.” 

You look up from the grading you’re doing with trepidation. “What?” He has a real talent for those pop and lock moves, but you’ll never tell him. He doesn’t need to be encouraged.

“You’re both squares!”

You smile in spite of yourself. “I don't drink anymore while I'm grading due to an unfortunate incident involving red wine.”

Rick dances over to where you’re sitting and grinds on you, gyrating like a stripper. 

"Fine!" You put your highlighter down. He is undeniable. "I'll have one drink." 

"Great!" He swiftly produces a forty-oz from within his lab coat. Where he had room for it, you can't know. It's like Mary Poppins' carpet bag. 

Twenty minutes later and you've given up grading entirely, instead dancing around your apartment with Rick in your underwear, trying to outdo each other with sillier and sillier moves. The next morning, you force yourself to wake up early, hungover, so you can finish the work Rick convinced you to abandon. The other side of your bed is empty, sheets rumpled from where he had reclined and you had ridden him. You can still feel where his long fingers gripped your hips, helping you find your pleasure on his dick over and over. Insatiable, meaningless, egoistic fucking, you remind yourself. He never stays. 

**  
"How can you be bored in a universe of infinite possibilities?" You ask more than once, and he never gives the same answer. Sometimes he is absent-minded enough, or high enough, to tell you stories of where he’s been. Fantastical accounts of intergalactic freaks and bizarre planets and societies based on everyone wearing hats. He never actually takes you there, though you know they’re true because Morty has corroborated some of the same during your tutoring sessions. Other times he avoids the question with ranting monologues about how nothing matters, how you’re not unique. It’s easy enough to tune him out, though the ideas can root into your mind for a couple weeks like pest worms in a crop, a pessimistic rot. The cure is work, and more Rick. You bury yourself in research, and text Rick to meet you at your lab on campus. He shows up and pulls you into an empty office, bends you over a desk and pounds you hard until you sob his name. That’s all he wants to hear. He leaves with the excuse that you must be busy, but he’s never turned down one of these requests. You wonder what sorts of things he puts aside just to come take care of your needs.

Those are the kind of thoughts you usually sweep back under the rug, though. Every time you start to ponder why he might be doing what he does for you, why he texts you, and responds in kind, it sets off warning bells. The thing about seeing Rick is that it gets addictive. The gravitational pull of his personality is unrelenting, and doesn't discriminate, and he draws you closer and closer until you're free falling towards something you thought you could resist. You think you know him well enough to know that he’s not the kind of person who makes time in order to satisfy others. He’s narcissistic and brilliant and the sex is the best stress relief you can find, so you’ll keep going back until he’s done with you. _I’m not getting attached_ , you remind yourself. _He’s giving me what he wants to give, and I won’t take more. There are no hidden layers here, no deeply buried emotions._ For all his philosophical ranting, Rick is simple. Surprisingly straightforward, especially compared to your previous attempts to date, where not only did you not understand your own emotions, your partner’s seemed like opaque vortexes. 

It’s easy to forget the ‘don’t catch feelings’ maxim in the heat of the moment, though. Even when you try to exist just in the periphery of Rick’s life, he tends to draw you into the crazy center with manic enthusiasm.

“No adventures, Rick,” you say every time he gets out his portal gun.

“I don’t do adventures with girls,” he reminds you.

And yet, just being around him, shit happens anyway. Most of the time, it’s nothing dangerous, though after one harrowing incident, he leaves a handgun on your kitchen table. You protest at first, and he rolls his eyes when you say you don’t feel comfortable having a gun.

“It’s just a metal dick. W-wa--eeeuurgh--ave it around, it’ll threaten most people and impress the ones stupid enough to think it’s effective.”

But when you remind him you don’t know how to handle a gun, he checks his watch, grumbles that he’s going to be late to something, and portals to an indoor range so he can teach you.

Because Rick is a magnet for danger, and seems to relish antagonizing people to the point that they develop bloodthirsty grudges against him, your firearm training eventually proves useful. You are sitting with him one evening at the Smiths’ house. The rest of the family is gone on a weekend vacation, and Beth pulls you aside before they leave, imploring you to stay over at the house and make sure her father doesn't trash it. You reassure her you will do your best to keep him in line, and so far, the powerful distraction of sex, everywhere all the time, has worked. Unfortunately, it hadn’t crossed your mind that Rick might have a bounty on his head.

“Uh oh.” Rick’s only warning to you is accompanied by a burp as he shoves you off the couch to the floor. He stands up as commandos in ghillie suits crash through the windows. Gunshots snap into the walls and furniture. The first few are unbelievably loud, make your ears ring. Subsequent shots sound duller and far away. Rick shelters behind the TV cabinet and returns fire. More commandos pour into the living room. Rick only notices you once, and frantically motions for you to get out of the way— you low crawl, dazed and a little drunk, to the kitchen. Rick joins you a second later, pulls a grenade pin with his teeth and tosses it onto the couch. 

The explosion sprays blood and splinters everywhere. Men are screaming. You peer over the counter and see one of them trying to gather his intestines in his hands and push them back into his torn open abdomen. You duck back down again. Rick has already jumped back into the fray—you wonder how he hasn’t been shot yet, or even hit with shrapnel. The attackers-- whoever they are-- fight grimly. Rick, on the other hand, is gleeful, goading and ruthless. At a certain point, when he shoots a fleeing commando in the back, you realize he could have easily survived this fight in any number of ways, but has chosen to end it in a way that entertains him for the moment. 

You only discharge one shot, when a sudden influx of fresh troops kick in what’s left of the living room window. One charges Rick from behind. You struggle to steady your hands, not really sure where you're aiming-- the torso or head or anywhere else-- and hit him in the hip. His scream as he goes down attracts Rick's attention for a split second, and he shoots him where he has collapsed on the floor. Then he whirls back, brutal and unstoppable. His violence crescendos in a stream of profanity, under which you can hear two unfamiliar voices begging. 

Then two shots and it’s all quiet until Rick shouts for you to come out. You crawl from your hiding spot and rejoining him in the living room. He’s breathing hard, covered in blood. The entire living room is too, the couch is gone, the roof partially caved in. Bodies in various states of mangling lie around like broken toys. When he wipes away the drool on his lower lip, blood from his sleeve gets on his mouth. He grimaces and spits the taste away on one of them. There are two buckled over at the knees right in front of him, each with a coin sized hole through the forehead.

“How- how many are there?” Your voice is thin.

 

“Why does everyone always ask that?” He snaps. He seems disoriented somehow, but when he sees you he clears this throat. “I counted 32. I shot 45 times, 20 headshots.”

 

You blink, looking around, then catch his eye. “What’s it like to kill someone?”

Rick shrugs, impassive. He takes out his flask. He drinks, and drinks again as he folds his long limbs and sits down on the floor. “Wh-why are you looking at me like that? Don’t-- stop looking at me like that.”

You sink to your knees next to him. “Like what?”

“Like I barbecued your sheep-herding pet pig.”

You purse your lips, then roll out your tense shoulders. “So were you just talking out your ass when you said violence is the last refuge of the incompetent?”

Rick pushes the spikes of his hair back from his forehead, but they just spring back up again. "How else would you have wanted me to settle that? Y-you think I like this? That I like killing people? I don't. I swear, I don't. I missed being shot at. The sound of-- the sound of gunfire over your head or-or blasters or lasers it's... it's great. There's no--eeeuurgh--othing else like it. I love being in a fight." He sighs, his head falls back against the wall behind him.

"Is it... I don't know how to put this. Relaxing?"

He takes a long drink, "For me it is. I don't-- I have no idea about other people. But it's like being in total control, no one can tell you what to say or what to think."

Having just experienced it, a firefight seems like the opposite of control, and you tell him this. So many things you can’t predict, ricochet and shrapnel, and the vagaries of your opponents' split second decisions.

He gives you a rare sort of smile, almost approving. "It's all stupid and ugly and random, just like the rest of the universe. But it's contained in the moment it's happening, and you have a gun and bullets are flying at you and you have to decide if you're gonna shoot back."

"It seemed like you were having fun..."

Rick grunts and scratches his balls. "Yeah. Your point?"

You are silent for a moment, looking over the ruined corpses of the attackers. "If it's fun does that make all this worth it?"

"Are you really-- are you asking me what makes one life more valuable than another? That's... i-i-if you are, you're stupid, and that's-- it's a fucking disappointment. I'm disappointed in you. There's no constant here. No one has intrinsic value, we're all just bags of meat."

“What about your family?”

“Oh, my family! Y-yeah, my lackluster grandkids. I mean, Jesus Christ, talk about thwarting natural selection.” At your scandalized look, he rolls his eyes, but softens his tone slightly. “I know, I know, you think Morty’s a good kid, y-you’ve got a soft spot for him, it’s the only explanation for why you’ve patiently wasted a year of your time on him. Summer-- Summer is brave and confident, or whatever…” there is drool on his lower lip, which he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So? Your family’s great, and they really care for you.”

“--and my, uh, m-my sociopath bitch of a daughter who saw that she could have everything she wanted and then chose _Jerry_ … Well I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I won’t be staying at Casa Smith for much longer.”

“Getting your own place?”

“Jerry finally convinced Beth to consider put me in a nursing home. I mean ‘retirement community’. One way or another I’m-- I have to leave. I-I-I swear, I’m starting to suspect Jerry is some highly evolved species of parasite, so advanced even I can’t detect what he really is and reveal him.”

You hesitate, not wanting to admit that you might actually agree with Jerry and Beth. 

Rick’s scientific breakdown isn’t over, though. “--obviously feeding off of the most vulnerable, he targets someone who not only tolerates his weakness but tacitly encourages it. That’s how he latches on, digs in with his stubby little claws and makes his host think they finally found their sense of purpose in nurturing him. What kind of fucked up symbiosis is that, anyway?”

“Beth puts up with a lot,” you say. It’s supposed to sound diplomatic and innocent, but Rick narrows his eyes.

“Oh, you mean me?” 

You bite your lip, wanting to veer hard away from wherever this conversation might be going. "Could I have a sip of that?"

He glares at you, and grumbles about having to share, but hands the flask over. The liquor burns your throat. A pained groan cuts the silence and makes you jump. “What was that?”

Rick draws his pistol, getting up again. “I told you they weren’t all headshots. Here. You asked what it feels like. Go-- eeeurp-- go riiiiiight ahead. Have at it.” He checks that the chamber is empty, then hands it to you along with a single round. As careless as he is about most things, including the health of his liver, he takes safety seriously. You’ve never seen him forego safety goggles.

“This one.” He nudges one of the bodies with his foot. The man twitches, making a sound like an animal. You step around to see his face. Ashen and bloody, covered with dust from the shattered plaster. He says nothing. You wonder if he can see you. At Rick’s nod, you go through the motions of load and make ready. It’s all mechanical, muscle memory. This man tried to kill you. He’s dying, anyway. You aim and pull the trigger, five pounds of pressure from one finger. He tried to kill Rick…You’re mildly surprised at how steady your hand is. Movement here, death there. It’s not violent.

“Well? That answer your question?”

You switch the safety back on and hand it back to him. “It feels like nothing,” you say, then pause. “It’s exciting.” You’re about to turn away, to go sit at the wall again and ask for more liquor, but Rick permits no contemplation. He grabs you by the neck and bears you to the ground. 

“Rick, what--?” 

He cuts you off with a rough, biting kiss. Liquor and blood, plus his own saliva. The sharp angles of his long limbs poke you uncomfortably, but your body responds to him as naturally as it always has. Some primal attraction to him you’ve never really understood. 

You grip the front of his shirt, wanting to pull him closer. He wrenches your hand away. “N-no more questions. Don’t ask me to-- don’t ask me anything else. I’m done answering,” he says, voice rasping. He usually likes to bite and lick at the sensitive spots on your neck, but right now he has no patience for it. No interest in your pleasure. 

You are still reeling from what just went down. Corpses surround you, the iron smell of blood mingles with dusty plaster. It overwhelms the familiar scent of liquor on Rick’s breath. Yet you want him. However he’ll have you, you will accept him. Arousal swells in you, fierce and fast, trying to keep up with him. This will hurt if you’re not malleable.

Rick sits back on his heels and undoes his belt buckle. There is something dark and removed in his expression. His eyes take in your body hungrily but he avoids your eyes. He flicks open the button and unzips his fly. He doesn’t seem to care that you haven’t moved. It’s just one more step for him; he yanks the waistband of your sweatpants and panties down enough to expose your ass. You squirm a little at the carpet on your bare skin and his terse movements. He’s been rough before, he’s not the most sensual person, but this is different. He is urgent, harsh. There is no heat of desire, only the residual fury from fighting. 

He pushes your legs up, forcing your knees to your shoulders. Your arms are pinned and you feel awkwardly exposed, ass and pussy bared to him. 

“Stay,” he orders. You squeeze your hands, digging your nails into your palms. You will obey. You want to obey. You have never experienced him like this before, when he seems to be raging and foundering in the depths of his own psyche… but you asked the questions. 

You aren’t scared. You trust him. The only reassurance he gives you is his hand caressing your ass. No slapping, only quiet control. He has you where he wants you, folded in half under him. He pushes his cock into you slowly. Not teasing, just slow and agonizing. You’re wet for him but not enough. You whimper at the sting. It’s barely pleasurable. 

“What-- what did I tell you? Shut the fuck up and take my dick. And I-I want-- you’re gonna feel every inch.”

You bite your lip to keep from making a louder noise. His thin shoulders are hunched, his breathing ragged. His eyes gleam with the same bleak energy you had seen during the fight. He fucks you with deliberate, deep strokes, brings his hand to hold around your neck. It’s a familiar, comforting gesture, one that lures you into enjoying this. Rick teases out your arousal gradually, with each thrust, until your body hums with tension. Your eyes slip shut-- you’re close, if you can just relax into the sensations and shut out the horror all around you, just let Rick fill you and fuck you over and over until you forget...

“Open your eyes.” 

You do. Rick’s face is close to yours, studying you. You turn your head, roll your hips up to meet his. You need a little more now. His pace is becoming excruciating. Your core aches and you squeeze his thick shaft when he goes particularly deep and holds it there. _So good_ … you moan in appreciation and close your eyes again. Mistake.

“L-look at me.” He growls your name. “You’re alive. We’re alive and they’re not-- will you-- _look at me while I fuck you_.” He holds your throat tighter, crushing, bruising. 

Even as you struggle against his hand, and the lack of oxygen, you start to come, knowing in the back of your mind he won’t be happy. Rick notices as you start to clench and spasm around his dick and does one of the cruelest, Rick-est things he’s ever done to you. He pulls out. Your climax crashes down without him, empty, not quite satisfying. No rolling waves of pleasure like he usually coaxes out of you, just a brief, painful downfall that leaves your nerves tingling.

He stands up, and you straighten out your legs, looking at him with frustration. “Rick, why the hell--” You start to sit up, and he stops you with a foot on your chest. His magnificent cock is still hard and glistening from your juices.

“Was it-- were you confused by my rhetorical questions?” He snarls. “Don’t answer that. I told you to stay still and shut the fuck up and take my dick, which I know you’re good at because you’ve been doing it for damn near ten months. Are you-- you--What’s so hard about following simple instructions? Are you picking up what I’m putting down here?” He takes out his flask and drinks deeply. It seems to bring him back to himself a little. 

“You know, I’m feeling magnanimous. I think you deserve a second chance. You wanna-- ready to try again?”

You nod.

“Th-that’s my-- eeurp-- my good girl.” He smirks and lifts his foot. “Get on your knees.”

When you’re there, he palms his cock, stroking himself close to your face. You begin to reach for him, but he slaps your hands away. “Simple instructions. You-- you know what, I’ll just make this easy on you. Hands behind your back-- take off your shirt while you’re at it.”

You obey, looking up at him when your chest is bare, grasping your forearms at the small of your back. 

Rick laughs when you open your mouth for him, tells you you’re such a pretty picture. He holds you by your hair as he fucks your mouth, twisting his grip tighter to keep you from moving. You gag as the head of his thick cock hits the back of your throat over and over again. The squelching sounds obscene. The sparse, wiry hair at the base of his cock grazes your nose. Your own drool leaks from your mouth, your jaw aches, your eyes water. But you love this. You’ve told yourself over and over again, since you met him, that you want to please him. It’s a compulsion, and must be unhealthy at some point, but for now it’s still the exciting counterpoint to an otherwise staid life. That’s what makes you moan at the feeling of his dick in your mouth, and swirl your tongue around the tip each time he pulls back. The grunts he makes, when he praises your name and sounds like his knees weaken.

He always starts to talk more as he’s getting close. You’ve mentioned it before and he’s denied it, but you know he can’t help going off at the mouth, especially when he facefucks you. This time is no different. “I bet-- I bet you’re wondering why I killed those assholes when I obviously had the upper hand. Even the ones who tried to run away. I’ll tell you.” He starts to speed up, pulling out further and going deeper. You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment, trying to suppress your gag reflex. You choke and cough and it spurs him on. 

“It’s because they’re pissant little cowards who tried to-- unnh-- tried to fuck with me. I mean- I-I don’t give a shit until somebody’s scoping me. I don’t give a shit until somebody makes it personal.” His voice goes deep and gritty, his balls slap against your chin. “Fuck with me and you-- and-- and I’ll smile killing you.” Breathing hard, he groans the last few words as he pulls out of your mouth, shooting hot cum on your face and chest. You watch his face in wonder, earlier annoyance forgotten. The unbridled pleasure in his expression makes your chest tense with affection for a moment, but you discard the emotion as soon as you recognize it. 

Rick sinks to his knees in front you. He takes in the sight of you with his load dripping from your mouth and neck and breasts. Unreadable again. The only times he betrays real emotion are drunk, high, and orgasm. And, apparently, in the heat of battle, if you are to learn anything from today. You lick some of his cum from your lips, wondering if anything has really changed. He leans forward and kisses you to taste himself.

“I should really-- I should-- need to eat more pineapple, don’t I? Be--eeeurgh-- be honest.”

You smile and let him stroke your hair. No painful pulling, or wrenching your head around. He draws you into his arms and it feels strange. Isn’t cuddling supposed to be the normal part? You felt more at ease with his hand at your throat. 

You look over at the body of the man you had executed. In a way, your question was answered. But it couldn’t be that simple. You want to ask Rick what you were _supposed_ to feel. You push at his arms, mumble that you’re going upstairs to get cleaned up. He releases you and you leave him to take care of the ruined living room by himself.

Only later does the magnitude of what occurred, and what you’ve done, strike you, and you run to retch into the bathroom sink. With a clearer head, you think of the fracture you saw for a moment in Rick’s apathy, when you had left him alone. Perhaps a different version of him would have pulled you back to him, or come with you upstairs, but he had stayed kneeling, feigning disinterest. By the time you return hours later, the living room and kitchen are spotless, and Rick is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> yiikes this series got some plot and sorry about the angst? I didn't set out to write it but I guess it had to happen... let me know what you think!


End file.
